Far north off England’s east coast, near Scotland, is Holy Island, known as “Lindisfarne” at first millennium’s close. Its vibrant monastery could only be reached from the mainland at low tide, by a path of mud and sand flats . . .
I’d like to propose a moratorium on the use of the phrase “personal relationship with Christ.” A close friend who recently attended my Anglican church was alarmed that we read what she called “other people’s prayers.” She said that we need . . .
I like snowshoeing. But since I moved south of the Wisconsin border almost seven years ago, there has not been much opportunity to indulge in this winter pastime. A few hundred miles makes a difference in inches of snow received . . .
My bottom was already numb, and my skinny shoulder blades ached against the hard wooden pew where weekly as a child I sat obediently a few rows back on the left-hand side of the church with my family. Mostly I spent a lot of time staring at the stack of big black hymn numbers . . .
